


Crashland

by monstersinthecosmos



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Asphyxiation, BDSM, Blindfolds, Blow Jobs, Bottom Victor Nikiforov, Dom Katsuki Yuuri, Grief, Happy Halloween!, Lingerie, M/M, Oh boy where to start, Past Threesome, Questionable Lubricant, Sub Victor Nikiforov, Therapy, Top Katsuki Yuuri, Watching Porn Together, fucking the undead, horror genre, kinda like demonic i guess, not quite a zombie but idk, who knows - Freeform, zombie fucking sorta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-08-05 06:55:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16363043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monstersinthecosmos/pseuds/monstersinthecosmos
Summary: Yuuri's been dead for a while now, but Victor thinks he's trying to communicate.





	Crashland

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween! 
> 
> Some music I wanna get out of the way:
> 
> I based this story off the lyrics of [Creepy Green Light by Type O Negative](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yong-3x9WB4). Great song! HALLOWEEN SONG YALL. 
> 
> But I named it after [Crashland by Arcturus](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XxTcdsndj4w).
> 
> AND YET I wrote most of it while listening to [Dark Piano For Dark Thoughts by Lucas King](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lnMFj5DYxwI&list=OLAK5uy_n165t9CskNmjjBDwsCwueY1cMp9hwdueo). Super good! Super writing/reading music rec!

 

_with the mysteries in front of me, i drop my guard and you set me free_

_i plunge into the great unknown, wired wrong._

 

* * *

 

 

 

He’s been having dreams.

Sometimes they’re okay, and when he wakes up it doesn’t hurt. Other times it ruins his whole day. He wishes he’d remember his real life in them, maybe then he wouldn’t be so crushed. Because every time, _every time_ , when he sees Yuuri it’s all relief and joy and he cries and cries. It had been a mistake, it was all a misunderstanding. His Yuuri is here, he’s safe, he’s okay. And they embrace, and kiss, and sometimes it doesn’t stop until he’s on his back and Yuuri is railing him, and Victor is screaming and begging and when he wakes up he’s dripping and hard and upset with himself. 

His therapist has been trying to walk him through all of it. She keeps telling him it’s his way of processing the guilt. _Survivor guilt_ , she keeps saying. 

But sometimes…

He wakes up sweating, and it’s still dark. It’s 3am. Always 3am. 

And for some reason he’s beginning to think it means something.

 

 

 

 

It was oddly vulnerable for Victor their first time.

Ironic, because it was Yuuri’s actual first time. Victor had been with others, with plenty, he wasn’t even sure how many anymore. But he’d never worked this hard for someone, never waited this long. 

Yuuri, though. All flushed cheeks and shaky hands, his hair sticking gracelessly to his forehead as he fumbled with the condom. But Victor was getting to know him and could recognize the panic for what it was.

“Here,” he whispered, and sat up. He took the condom and kissed him, drew him back from the edge, soft hands on warm hips to switch their positions. “Let me do it, baby.”

And slowly, as Victor rolled it down onto him and settled over Yuuri’s pelvis, he saw the fear recede. Yuuri’s hands were twitching at his sides, nervous and pulling threads from the blanket, and Victor took them in his own. 

“I’ve got you,” he said. And Yuuri’s brow pinched as Victor lowered himself, frightened and in awe and in love. 

 

 

 

 

 

People mean well, he knows. They offer platitudes, anything to feel like they’re being useful, even when they’re not. Yuuri isn’t in a better place, Victor doesn’t need closure, skating won’t keep his mind off of it. 

_Closure_ , they keep saying. The fuck is closure? Someone tells him that when there’s a closed casket you don’t get closure. 

The media smile is an instinct by now, practiced most of his life. His jaw is tight, wired shut, aching up to his temples, and he nods and agrees. Yeah, closed casket. That must be it.

Nevermind that he’d seen it, and keeping it to himself is a knot in his throat, swelling until he’s sick. No one needs to know that part. _I saw his fucking face_ , he wants to say. _I was there._ But he knows if he tries to say it he might scream, and he won’t be able to stop.

 

 

 

 

_Can I tell you something crazy?_ he texts Chris one night. He misses Chris, wants to see his face, hear his voice, but he doesn’t think he can say any of this out loud. 

_yeah of course._

He leaves it on _Read_ for a few minutes as he collects himself. Makka curls up against him and he scratches her ears to stay grounded. His heart is thrashing in his chest, hands are shaking. 

_Don’t judge me?_

He sees that Chris is typing, but then he stops. Then starts again. _of course not, what’s wrong?_

_I think Yuuri is trying to tell me something._

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Do you think Yuuri would think less of you if you took a break?”

Victor flinches like he’s been slapped. Even in this controlled environment, in her office, where he’s been coming once a week _specifically_ to discuss Yuuri, somehow the confrontation still stings. 

She’s getting to know him, though, and she clicks her pen a few times as she reads his face, then puts it down. He’s chewing on his lip and can taste blood in his mouth.

“Think of it this way,” she says. Her chair creaks as she leans back. “You’re an athlete.”

“I _was_ an athlete.”

She ignores it and keeps talking. “You know that with your body there are limits you shouldn’t push. You want to stay in shape but you can’t overwork yourself, you’ll get injured.”

He shrugs and sucks at the cut on his lip. 

“You can honor Yuuri and keep him in your life without injuring yourself. It’s okay to take a night off and go out with a friend or do something nice. You’re punishing yourself with this self restriction.”

He’s not sure he understands the analogy. He’s already fucking injured.

There are other things she says, and he’s sure they’re compassionate and helpful and maybe if he took her advice he’d start feeling better. But he’s not in the fucking mood today. He doesn’t want to feel better.

For the last twenty minutes he contemplates finding a different therapist, but thinking about starting all the backstory over with a new person fills him with dread. He remembers sitting right here on this couch just, absolutely bawling every week for the first few months. At least now it’s faded to a dull, manageable throb.

Outside, after he leaves, he sits in his car in the parking lot, punching the steering wheel and asking for the thousandth time why it hadn’t been him.

 

 

 

 

 

It’s dark and he’s drunk and it makes him laugh when he rolls his ankle over a gnarled tree root. Good thing he doesn’t skate anymore.

He’s been here a hundred times and can’t remember it ever looking like this. Maybe it’s the mist. 

“Where the fuck are you buried?” he mumbles. 

The air is heavy, sticking to his skin, and his lungs are aching as he staggers up the hill. Even retired, he shouldn’t be this winded. He hasn’t let himself go that far. But there’s something, something…

 

 

 

 

 

And god, he adored Yuuri. 

It’s a love that changed forms, that shifted and deepened the way Yuuri himself did. At first he was all nervous laughter and chewed cuticles, and the tips of his ears were always red. There was a constant wrinkle of stress between his brows. Victor had never worked this hard for anyone, and there were lonely months where he questioned if it had been worth it. Nights awake texting Chris, full of over-dramatized self-pity. _Have I let myself go? Is my hair bad? What am I doing wrong?_ He was lost. _You’d tell me if my hair was bad, right? As a friend?_

But in the end it was none of that. It was just… Yuuri. Being Yuuri. Sweet and weird and shy and messy, but he’d finally relaxed. 

One day he’d finally even learned to ask for the things he wanted. And love shifted again and again. 

 

 

 

 

 

He knows he’s dreaming this time but can’t wake up.

It’s the beach in Hasetsu and it’s dark out. The water is black. He keeps wondering why he’s come back, but then remembers it’s a dream. But the guilt lingers, each time. _I should visit his family_ , he keeps thinking. But it’s just a dream. 

“Victor,” he hears, but no one is there. It reverberates through his head, and it chills him somewhere deep. It’s that same voice, soft but confident, the one Yuuri had grown into, once he’d changed forms. 

The sound of the water is enfolding him in static, and he squeezes his eyes shut, tries to listen harder, tries to focus over the rush of waves. The need is jagged in his chest, humiliating and desperate. He’s on edge, curious and nervous, wants to hear the voice again to figure out what it means, but a larger part of him is ready to beg. _Please, please. I miss you. Please come back._

Something, some charge, some change in the air makes skin goes tight with chills and it makes him look. Eyes open. His gaze lifts from his hands, folded in his lap, to the sand, to the surf. And the man there is nearly glowing in the moonlight, floating against the blackness.

_Yuuri._

He’s scrambling to his feet and reaching, reaching, but can’t seem to get closer. Yuuri becomes clearer, though. Stark white, deathly pale, kneeling in the wet sand. There’s seaweed in his hair and his lips are blue and the waves creep up around him. He’s settled there in the foam. 

“Victor,” he says, and it’s in his head again, even over the sound of sea. He’s not closer but the voice is so clear and warm.

The sight of him, the familiar shape and lines, even the eerily blank expression on his face, is burning at the corners of Victor’s eyes, and it’s hard to swallow around the way it makes him feel, and he’s trying to get closer but he can’t. He reaches the edge of the water and the waves come to his ankles, soak into his shoes, but he still can’t reach.

“Come to me,” Yuuri says. He puts his hand out, palm upward toward the sky, the stars, the moon. “Come meet me, Victor.”

“Where?” Victor cries out over the deafening sound of the water. “Where did you go?”

Yuuri’s mouth is moving but Victor can’t hear him anymore, and the water is freezing, splashing up on his legs, and he’s close enough to see the red shot through Yuuri’s eyes, but he still can’t reach.

“Please,” Victor says, and he’s awake again, his voice scratching out into the dark room. It’s warm and dry in his bed, and he still hasn’t gotten used to it being so empty. He’s reaching for Yuuri’s side before he realizes it, touching the cold space, and beyond it on the nightstand are the red numbers of the clock.

3am. 

His throat is dry and his heart is thudding in his ears, and it has to calm down for a moment before he can hear the other sound. It hits him in the pit of his stomach and he feels guilty that he hadn’t heard it sooner.

It’s Makka, whimpering, hiding in the closet like she does when there’s a thunderstorm. 

 

 

 

 

 

They were up late talking in bed, one of the first nights in St. Petersburg, maybe an hour after sex, still warm and soft and a little sore. Victor’s legs still felt rubbery and he knew his hair was a mess.

“Your turn,” he said, and he passed his phone over. Even in the dim light from the screen he could see the pink in Yuuri’s face. 

“I don’t know…” 

Victor laughed and kissed him on the cheek. “You just ate my asshole, I think you can stop being shy now, Yurotchka.” 

“ _Victor!_ ” and he covered his eyes with his hands, but he was smiling. 

“Show me! Yuuuriiiiiii!” he peppered the side of Yuuri’s face with kisses until he could get Yuuri to laugh. “Come on, I showed you mine!”

Yuuri glanced from the screen to Victor’s face, back and forth a couple times, and his shoulders curled inward as he gave in and began to type. The feeling of giddyness in Victor’s stomach was almost childish. His cheeks were still red as he scrolled down over his search results, angled away so that Victor couldn’t see.

Victor leaned closer, began to tangle their limbs together. “How often do you watch porn?” he asked.

“I dunno,” Yuuri mumbled. “The usual, I guess.”

“The usual?”

Yuuri ignored him and his fingers hovered over the screen, not touching for a moment. Victor could _feel_ the insecurity rolling off him, palpable and warm and it made him snuggle in closer.

“Let me see,” he finally said against Yuuri’s shoulder. Yuuri was starting to feel tense again, back to his usual self, and Victor bristled from the idea that the sex was wearing off already. 

“Fine, here,” he said, and shoved the phone at Victor before slumping down into the pillows. “I’mafreakpleasedon’tjudgeme.”

Oh? Intriguing.

Victor actually sat up and crossed his legs, elbows propped on his knees as he hunched over to watch. The one he’d shown Yuuri was shameless threesome filth--some tanned, blonde twink crying as he was spitroasted, then double penetrated. And Victor had been adventurous in the past but never gone that far. The part of him that was an exhibitionist simply wanted to share this fantasy with his fiancé because it was _fun_ , but he wondered if Yuuri would ever be open to sharing him with somebody one day. Likewise, as he hit play on the next video, he wondered if it was something Yuuri wanted to try.

The camera was stationary, fixed on a man tied to a chair, face off screen. Also off screen was his captor, giving the most graceful two-handed handjob that Victor had ever seen. It was almost artistic. 

Yuuri was curling up tighter into a little ball as the video went on and the man’s piteous whimpering spilled from the tinny phone speaker. He kept begging, but every time he was ready to come, the other squeezed him hard, or slapped him, or pulled away completely. It went on and on until he was squirming and crying.

Rubbery sex legs be damned, it was making Victor kinda hard again.

“Yuuri…” he said. Yuuri lifted his head from the pillow and looked like he was bracing himself to be ridiculed.

“It’s weird, right?”

“No,” he turned to look at the video again, in time to see the captor press his middle finger knuckle-deep into the man’s hole. Something warm shot through Victor’s inner thighs. He stared at Yuuri and tried to read his face. “It’s hot.”

God, the look of relief was adorable. “Really?”

Victor dropped the phone in his lap and lowered himself down, kissed Yuuri on the mouth. “Was this something you wanted to try?”

More blushing, and Yuuri was stuttering a little, and covering his face with his hands. “Maybe?”

“You want me to do this to you?”

And he felt it change between them, like a temperature drop. Yuuri’s face was still covered but his shoulders relaxed, his posture changed, and his voice was more steady when he answered: “Well… no.”

 

 

 

 

 

Sometimes fans leave little totems at Yuuri’s grave, but right now they’re buried under a layer of dead autumn leaves. Victor stands away at first, because he always does. The sight of the headstone always makes him freeze, because the trip to the cemetery still never feels real enough.

_Closure_ , heh.

He swigs from the bottle of Richebourg Grand Cru—it was supposed to be for their anniversary, whoops—and sways on his feet. He always feels drawn to this place, like pressing against a bruise. Knowing that Yuuri is down there puts a knot in his stomach. 

The leaves crunch beneath him as he staggers to close the distance, and the bottle slips from his fingers and he crawls the last few feet. He tries to imagine where exactly the casket is underground, remembers how he used to cling to him in bed, stretch out over him. His cheek presses against the damp ground and he wonders if they’re lined up. The leaves smell sweet.

_Come to me._

“I’m here,” he mumbles. He looks up at the letters on the stone, and they twist in his hazy vision until he closes his eyes. It feels like the ground is shaking beneath him but it’s probably just the spins. 

 

 

 

 

 

“I think… I like telling you what to do…” Yuuri said one night, and if his face hadn’t been still-red from sex he might have blushed. Victor was spent for the moment, but the confession blossomed gentle heat in his gut. 

“That’s good,” Victor said, and he tightened his octopus-grip around Yuuri’s body, chin digging into breast bone. “I liked it, too.”

Yuuri met his eyes and it was probably a new record for how long he lasted before his brow creased and his hands fidgeted at Victor’s sides. He looked away, almost frantic, at the ceiling, at the window, down to the left at the rumpled comforter beneath them. He chewed at the corner of his lip until a layer of skin came off. Victor scooted up to kiss him and make him stop. He let his weight sink down against Yuuri’s body, feeling Yuuri’s cum between their stomachs. Yuuri hissed at the grind of Victor’s dick against his own, tender and oversensitive. 

It was new for him, Victor knew it. He loved it. It made him feel special in a way that his other partners hadn’t. They had all treated him like he was special, in their own ways. He was famous, he was gorgeous, he was a prize. But it made him an object, a conquest. It wasn’t the same with Yuuri. It wasn’t such an honor with the others, it didn’t make him feel _loved_.

Yuuri had waited for him. No one had ever waited for him.

So it was a thing that shifted and changed, and sometimes Yuuri could be shy and embarrassed and insecure, getting stuck in his own head and obsessing over his inexperience. But unlocking these parts, learning these things, thrilled Victor more than he could ever explain.

 

 

 

 

 

He sucks Chris’s dick the night of the funeral.

They’re both wrecked and neither think it’s cheating, because Yuuri would’ve been okay with it. And they both miss him, they both feel afraid, and they both need to be out of the suffocating funeral suits as quickly as possible. It used to be sexy, the suit thing, but now the tie around his neck is digging into his Adam’s apple and he just needs all of it gone. 

Yuuri usually lets them know what to do. He sits patiently in the corner, fingers steepled under his chin, his commands confident but soft. They always have to strain to hear him, and Victor knows that’s part of his power. It usually has him panting, gritting his teeth, trying not to make too much noise, hyper-focused on the gentle voice. Yuuri will meet his eyes, and Victor will be on his hands and knees, and Chris’s fingers will be bruising into his hipbones. 

The room is quiet though, uncomfortable, and it isn’t sexy and fun as he steers Chris by his waist. It’s desperate and lonely and sad. But he gets Chris’s pants off, and he’s getting them ready, he’s got the lube in his other hand and Chris’s cock down his throat and _god_ he’d give anything to hear Yuuri’s voice right now, telling him what to do. Normally Yuuri tells Chris to pull Victor’s hair, and tells him exactly how to tease, and it never feels all that serious right away until Victor is genuinely begging. And then it’s Chris, in him, stretching him and plowing him until he can’t remember his own name. 

But that isn’t what Victor wants tonight. There’s something like anger inside, and Chris is the only person who won’t judge him. 

Chris is quieter than usual, and petting Victor’s hair, not tugging at it the way he always does. His fingers graze along Victor’s jaw, then the outside of his ear. It’s gentle and loving and Victor doesn’t think he can take it.

“Victor,” Chris pants, and there’s pain in his voice, as much as there is lust. His hips arch off the mattress.

There’s an obscene, wet noise when he pulls off, and he thinks maybe Chris is ready, maybe it’s time, but… 

Chris sits up and reaches between Victor’s legs, his face wounded and a little shocked by the lack of response, and it’s the first time this has ever happened to either of them. 

“I can’t,” Victor mumbles, and the tears are back. He falls back against his heels and covers his face. “I can’t, I can’t.”

 

 

 

No matter how many times it happens, his body always responds when he fucks up on the ice. 

There’s that split second, that fragment of time, where he knows. Something is off and he’s in the air, weightless and spinning and cold and he knows he’s going to hit wrong. 

The part of him that is a professional, that has done this his whole life, takes it in stride. It’s instinct to brace for the bad fall, and he won’t take it personally, he knows he’ll get back up.

But there’s that primal part, deep in his brain, shooting frantic energy into his sides and crawling over the surface of his skin. The animal part that’s warning him of the impending pain, letting him know it’s dangerous.

It’s how he feels the night of the accident. 

He sees the blood and the glass and smells the smoke and the part of him that is an adult is trying to function, to find his phone and call for help. He reaches for Yuuri’s hand.

But he knows, before he even gets to touch. It’s too wrong, it’s too broken. It’s responsible to go through the motions but he knows that his life is completely fucking over. 

 

 

 

 

At first, they’d come up with little clues to leave around the apartment if Yuuri wanted to try a scene. It had been a huge obstacle for him to initiate them, but if they talked about it too much beforehand he’d lose his nerve. So there were graceful little hints.

Makka’s leash would be draped over Victor’s seat at the kitchen table instead of hanging in its usual spot on the coat rack. Or Yuuri’s glasses would be folded neatly on the bathroom counter, where they didn’t belong. At first the leash was the main clue, and the rule was that if Victor wasn’t in the mood he could just put it away. And no one had to feel weird about it.

To be fair, he was usually always in the mood. The only couple times he backed down it was hard-day-at-practice related and he just wanted to be held and massaged until he fell asleep. 

The glasses were trickier, though. He could put them away, that was the agreement. But it still left Yuuri walking around the apartment with his contacts all evening, already half in character, ready to destroy him with a sly glance, and the truth was that even with these safeguards in place it was a long time before he felt bold enough to get ready beforehand, before he even had the green light. 

Eventually that was the main way Victor would know. And eventually Yuuri stopped leaving his glasses out at all, so that when he’d come up behind Victor, capture him tight around the waist, all of it was a surprise. 

It worked every time.

Yuuri never articulated it out loud, but Victor suspected that part of his drive to behave like this was that he was so squeamish about his own pleasure. When they were still fairly vanilla he’d always turn away when he came, swallow down all the noises. Clicking himself into the dom space, _Eros_ , gave him a license to be aloof and condescending and hide the way he was unravelling. 

So Victor suggesting blindfolds was perhaps to coax him out, give him that extra security that no one was watching. He never brought it up out loud, just tucked it into Yuuri’s gear bag one morning, a little clue, and instead of Yuuri’s glasses on the counter that night, it was the blindfold. 

“Victor,” Yuuri purred into his ear in bed later. “I can’t believe you wanted this.”

He could only whimper in response, marveling at the tone in Yuuri’s voice, one he hadn’t heard yet.

“I can’t believe I’m gonna marry such a slut.”

Yuuri had never spoken like that before. 

 

 

 

 

 

The ground is really shaking, it isn’t the wine. 

There are rational thoughts cycling through his brain but they’re muted and far away. Like maybe it’s an earthquake? And maybe he should get somewhere safe? He pushes himself up to his knees and looks around the cemetery for a good place to wait it out. 

But he can barely see anymore. The fog is so thick he can hardly see the next graves over. Yuuri’s headstone is wobbling like it’s going to fall, and it spikes enough adrenaline in him that he’s able to scoot back, out of the way in case it falls. He’s drunk and startled and confused but the sound of the stone grinding against the base is so real, and there’s such a sober thought asking him what he’s supposed to do if it breaks. 

His hand grazes the discarded wine bottle, and though it’s dripping down into the ground there’s enough left that he grabs it and drinks desperately as he pushes back again, through the leaves, until he’s safely over the next plot. And, is he this wasted? Or is the ground not moving here? He pushes his palms flat against the earth and he’s trying to figure it out, but there’s a crash of sound and the smell of smoke and green light drifting through the fog and suddenly he can’t breathe.

The ground is splitting, opening, over Yuuri, and the headstone is still wobbling, and he’s trying to remember if he’s dreaming because it feels so real, so lucid. His adult brain tells him to get up, to get to safety, and he digs in his pocket for his phone. It’s either because he needs the flashlight or because he needs to call Chris, he’s not sure, but when the light of the lock screen burns into his eyes he freezes.

3:00.

“Victor,” it’s like the dreams, it’s like the sex, it’s that way he could get. Calm and serious and _Eros_ and _there’s a fucking hand reaching out of his grave._ There’s green light emanating from the pit and he’s paralyzed there. He thinks he knows what he’s seeing—his brain is processing the visual information but none of it is making sense. Because he’s seeing pale white hands grabbing fistfuls of dirt, and watching the body pull itself up from the hole, and the light is casting a halo around the edges of his hair, and… and…

He turns to the side and vomits into the leaves. 

 

 

 

 

Chris would tease him about this for the next six months, and call him pathetic, and accuse him of being a stalker every time Victor mentioned a new picture on Phichit’s instagram. But there was something about this boy. 

_Now do you believe me?_ he linked the video in a text message and held Makka close.

_lol marry him_ , Chris answered. 

 

 

 

 

He’s only able to recognize Yuuri’s clothes for what they are for a moment before they fall away. It’s a black-on-black suit, dark blue pocket square, the cufflinks he’d worn at their wedding. Victor hadn’t seen him wearing it at the funeral, closed coffin and everything, just remembers picking it out for Yakov to drop off. But as Yuuri climbs up it flutters away, catches under his knees as he crawls, and Victor wants to puke again when he realizes it’s cut up the back. _This is really real._

When he dreams about Yuuri he’s always relieved, so glad that he’s okay, that it was a mistake. But even watching him moving, coming closer, Victor knows that Yuuri is still _dead_. There are tiny pink lines, shiny like scars, in a web over his face where it had broken, and jagged stitches holding the Y incision closed. It’s dangerous and unnatural and _evil_ but Victor can’t bring himself to move. There’s a moment of sick realization that he wants to stay. 

“Yuuri,” he slurs. And maybe it’s different that Yuuri isn’t _okay,_ but maybe… maybe…

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he says. It sends chills up Victor’s spine. _He sounds the same_. 

“Yuuri, I-“ 

I… what? The words catch in his throat, dry, and he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say. But Yuuri is almost in his space now, crawling forward through the leaves. Victor can smell him—it’s soft and earthy like the grave dirt, but no hint of death. It makes him whimper and close his eyes.

“No,” Yuuri says, and his cold hand comes around Victor’s leg. He tugs at Victor’s jeans and it’s a monstrous, effortless strength that has Victor’s whole body dragging closer. “Keep your eyes on me, Victor.”

 

 

 

 

 

Yuuri’s hand was steady and confident around Victor’s throat, thumb and index finger pressing tight to the arteries beneath the corners of his jaw. It was making his skin flush warm, and spots were flashing in his vision, and suddenly the feeling of Yuuri’s dick in him was so overwhelming. Pressure everywhere, throbbing in his temples and stringing him tight in his belly, his groin, his balls. The air was still getting in but he was squeaking around it, wheezing, and he came just like that, unable to even give Yuuri the heads up.

“You’re such a freak,” Yuuri whispered against his ear, and he flexed his hand one more time but then eased up. “What would people say about you if they knew you got off like this? And wearing panties like a girly girl.”

He let go so that he could grab Victor by the shoulders, pulling hard against him as he fucked through to his own orgasm. Victor’s ears were ringing and he couldn’t quite hear what Yuuri was saying, just bloomed there, knowing that he was doing a good job. 

Their chests were sweaty, skin sticking as Yuuri collapsed against him after. He could feel Yuuri’s heartbeat thundering beneath his bones. He closed his eyes and breathed deep, trying to center himself, feeling like he was hovering somewhere near the ceiling.

“Love you,” Yuuri mumbled, and kissed his cheek. He began to lift himself up from the bed, the usual ritual, probably to go get a washcloth and a glass of water, but Victor was shaking and grabbing at him, squeezing him around the wrist and going tense all over.

“Don’t,” he said, and his voice sounded far away, even to his own ears.

“Woah, woah,” Yuuri pet Victor’s bangs away from his face and settled back down. “I’m here, Vitya. You’re okay.”

The mess between them was wet and disgusting and the way Yuuri had shoved Victor’s panties to the side was digging a hard line into his skin, beginning to rub raw. He tried to swallow but it was so thick in his throat.

“Can I get you tea?” Yuuri asked, and his hand was gently rubbing all the places he’d been slapping a little while ago. “I’ll be right back, I promise.”

“Y-yeah…” his voice was scratchy and he tried again. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Yuuri left the door open after he left, and Makka plodded in a moment later. It was ridiculous, but something about her little face made Victor burn with shame, and he forced himself to get up and head into the bathroom. He peeled the panties off and ran cold water over his face, then looked up at the mirror. 

There were marks on his body, and his chest was still blotchy red from blushing. All of it was suddenly unsexy, and he felt cold and gross and wanted to cry. His hair was a mess and his eyes were puffy.

“What the fuck.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a shaky sigh.

But then Yuuri was behind him, capturing him tight around the waist, gentle and warm. 

“Come back to bed, baby,” he whispered. And the tea was waiting on the nightstand, and the sheets were clean, and the blankets were heavy and Makka was at his feet and the adoration on Yuuri’s face was almost too much. 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s sick, it’s unnatural. Victor opens his eyes and Yuuri is right there. The rational adult inside is presenting the cool, clear facts. That Yuuri is dead, that he’s been dead, that he’s either stumbled into something sinister or he’s finally just lost his mind, that he needs to get up and sleep it off in the car until he’s sober enough to drive home. 

But the primal part…

Yuuri is squeezing at his thighs and it hurts more than it ever did, but the pain feels rich and sweet, purple and warm, and despite everything it goes right to his cock. Because he’s missed Yuuri, he has. Missed waking up with him and skating with him and going on stupid dates. His weird fidgeting and dumb jokes. He misses cooking dinner together and Skyping with Yuuri’s mom and he misses always having someone around who can correct his spelling. But it would be a lie if he didn’t miss this part, too, miss having someone who can tear him to pieces.

He opens his legs by instinct, making space for Yuuri to press in close. Even through his clothes he can feel that Yuuri’s body is cold. He only makes it through a half gasp before Yuuri has closed the space between them to kiss. 

It’s familiar and frightening all at once. It’s the same shape, the same pressure, he moves the same way he always has. But he’s so icy and there’s a taste in his mouth like copper. It feels like licking a battery. He misses warmth and laughter and misses that soft feeling of safety, even after their roughest scenes. Perhaps because of the roughest scenes. It’s the love and trust that’s left behind, even when he’s been shred inside out, it’s the way Yuuri always took care of him after. He’d put his glasses back on and fuss and make Victor drink water, and his cheeks were always so red and embarrassed like he was still a virgin. 

Victor misses all that, he does. But it’s not a dream, and maybe this is the only way he can have Yuuri again, and maybe that’s okay.

Yuuri pulls away and bites Victor’s bottom lip as his hands work between them to unbutton Victor’s jeans. His teeth scrape against Victor’s stubble, then across the hard cartilage of his throat, and he’s pushing Victor’s jacket away from his shoulders. Victor shrugs it off eagerly, and he wants to touch Yuuri back but he isn’t ready, so he busies himself by undressing. Pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it to the side in the dark, kicks off his shoes. He lifts his hips so that Yuuri can get his pants off. And Yuuri’s body against him a moment later, skin-to-skin has him going tense all over, shocked by the sensation. He’s caging Victor in, hovering like a predator.

His mind runs through the old routines, the usual rituals. It’s not that the sex was the same every time, but there was always the moment of submitting, waiting for a command. Yuuri’s nails feel sharp against his ribs, squeezing, scratching. It breaks through to rationality for a moment—he wonders if this will seem like a dream tomorrow, but maybe he’ll bear the marks. 

“You’ve missed me,” Yuuri says. He leans in close to Victor’s ear, breath cold so that the hair raises on Victor’s neck. Victor almost laughs, and there are tears in his eyes. _Of course I missed you_ , he’d say, because isn’t it obvious? But the low pitch of Yuuri’s voice makes him feel like he’s being taunted. Cold hand takes him by the cock and he gasps, jolts, arches his back so that he fuses against Yuuri’s skin. He wants to squirm away when he feels the stitches. But he clings, afraid to let go. There’s a dry little laugh. “Are you really this desperate?” 

“ _Yuuri_ ,” he pleads, and claws at Yuuri’s back. His body is harder than it used to be, unnatural and unyielding, dusty with dirt. Yuuri strokes him and squeezes harder around the head and Victor’s face flushes red. 

“So needy, Vitya,” he chides. “Has no one been able to ruin you?” 

He pulls in tighter, bites at Yuuri’s shoulder to muffle his own whimpering. His face is warm with shame and he gasps at the feeling of relief when he presses his cheek to Yuuri’s cool neck. His hips cant upward into Yuuri’s hand. He inhales against Yuuri’s flesh and it makes his head swim—it isn’t how he used to smell, and it isn’t just the smell of the earth. There’s a base note like acid and flowers and it cloys in the back of his throat, makes his stomach curl with memories and anxiety. It’s how the funeral parlor had smelled, so strong that he’d wanted to crawl out of his own skin, and he kept watching the second hand of the clock and feeling like it was barely budging.

“Have you even been with anyone else?” Yuuri asks, and squeezes harder. He pulls away, leans back against his heels so that he can look down, and it makes Victor feel so small that he shudders. “You’re so desperate you’d fuck a corpse?”

“Please,” he says, and sits up, clings, moves until he’s in Yuuri’s lap. Every inch of him that touches Yuuri’s body tenses. His instinct is to recoil, but he does everything he can to clutch tighter. It’s a feeling like falling, like hitting the ice. 

Yuuri’s free hand plants flat in the small of Victor’s back and presses, nails leave little dimples, and he lets go of Victor’s dick to fuss with one of the loose stitches on his chest.

“You want me to fuck you?” he asks, and _god_ it’s something he’s said a thousand times to Victor, and they could be in the cemetery in the dark and Yuuri could be fucking dead but Victor still falls of it. There aren’t words, only whining in affirmation, and he doesn’t realize that Yuuri is pulling out the stitches over his breast bone until it’s too late. He flinches and tries to pull back but Yuuri holds him in place.

There’s fluid leaking from the opened wound. It’s translucent yellow, glistening in the moonlight, and the smell is acrid. He can see the pink meat inside, cut so lovingly, surgically, and Yuuri is dipping his fingers into it. _No blood_ , his brain tells him. _No blood._

Yuuri bites at Victor’s earlobe, then the corner of his jaw. There’s dirt in his eyelashes and caught in the ridges of the shining pink scars. But he’s still so pretty.

“You want me to fuck you?” he asks again. The way his fingers plunge in and out of his chest is so languid and suggestive. 

“I-“ Victor stutters, not sure what language he’s landed on as Yuuri finally stops. His fingers are shiny and dripping and he reaches around, teasing a soft circle around Victor’s hole. His entire brain is telling him to stop, _no no no_ , telling him it’s sick, it’s wrong, it can’t even be real. It’s a nightmare, it’s a nightmare. But fuck if it doesn’t feel as good as it used to. 

“Tell me, Vitya.”

“Please-“

“Please what?” he presses in and Victor clenches around him. 

“Fuck me, Yuuri, please,” he has to gasp for breath. “I miss you so much, please.”

Yuuri licks into his mouth as he scissors his fingers, and Victor grinds up against him. Yuuri is hard, too, and it’s pressing up against the underside of Victor’s cock. He rocks back and forth between both sensations, ready to cry because he needs it so bad. 

“Please, please,” he says again. “Fuck me.”

And then Yuuri’s fingers are gone, and the hands are vices on his hip bones. He thinks he might be bruised later. And the wind is knocked out of him as he’s pushed onto his back. For a moment all he sees is the sky, the diffused light of the full moon hanging in the clouds. 

“You’re a fool, Vitya,” he whispers. His hand is still wet with the fluid when he takes Victor by the cock, laying in with slow, teasing strokes. He glides up and down and there’s warmth in his skin, but Victor knows it’s his own body heat. Stolen. “What made you think you could do this on your own?”

He moans and wonders if there’s even an answer. 

There’s a silhouette of tree branches overhead, swaying a little bit in the sky, leaves making a sound like rushing water. He’s trying to remember what he did with his phone, but can’t complete the thought because Yuuri is licking at the head of his cock. His mouth is cold and Victor gasps, looks down at him. Their eyes meet and Yuuri looks so… dark. It’s almost like he’s not in character anymore; it’s just who he is now. Victor’s insides twist, his adrenaline pinches at his sides and floods over the heat of the blood rushing to his dick. It’s hard to know if he’s more aroused or more disgusted.

But it’s hard to focus. He’s too drunk and confused and the cold wet mouth is sucking him in. He wants to tell himself that it isn’t real, it isn’t happening. It’s wrong but it’s familiar. It’s all the same moves Yuuri used to pull, the years of technique you learn when you’re fucking the same person. It’s all the dirty tricks that undo Victor the fastest—the way his tongue tests the give of Victor’s foreskin, the way his thumb presses hard against the swollen vein underneath. He works at the head at first, the way he always did, still using his hand, and Victor grabs for his hair on instinct. It’s not to control the pace, or force himself; it’s never been that. But he needs to anchor himself, feel Yuuri there like he used to.

It’s dirty. He feels it on Yuuri’s scalp. It lodges grit beneath his fingernails.

His hips come off the ground as Yuuri sinks deep, and he hits the back of Yuuri’s throat. There’s no reaction at all, _he’s fucking dead_ , it’s just cold and hard and Victor lets go of his hair so that he can cover his own eyes. Yuuri flexes around him but doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t gag, and it would be sexy if it wasn’t so fucking creepy. At least, Victor’s brain tells him that. His dick seems to disagree.

Yuuri’s hands dig into his thighs, pull him in tighter, his nails leave angry red marks. 

“Fuck,” Victor whimpers. “Fuck, Yuuri-“

He wonders if he should be concerned about the fluid from Yuuri’s body when Yuuri touches at his hole again. It makes his skin tingle and it’s gross enough that he wants to feel sickened, but… 

Yuuri rubs a circle against his prostate and continues to suck hard and Victor can’t remember why it matters. He digs his palms into his eyes until there’s a burst of color, purple boxes, and the positive shape of the tree branches flashing white. _This is a nightmare, this is a nightmare_. But hasn’t life been a nightmare, anyway? He’d rather stay here. 

His body goes tense like he’s about to come, and Yuuri pulls away with a wet pop. He opens his eyes and Yuuri’s face is there, hovering over. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and settles on his knees, watching Victor’s face with cool judgement for a moment before dragging him closer, hooking Victor’s legs over his shoulders.

“Pathetic,” Yuuri says under his breath as he reaches into his chest again. It’s still leaking, dripping down over his abs, mixing with the smear of precum that Victor had left earlier. More of the stitches pop and the wound gets deeper; Yuuri puts more fingers inside, and it drips down to glisten over his wrist. When he pulls out Victor can see his bones. 

There are a few slow strokes as Yuuri spreads it across his cock, watching Victor’s face the whole time, but finally he lines up. He grabs fistfuls of Victor’s ass, spreads him, scratches his skin, and it’s only when Victor begins to twitch from the pain that Yuuri thrusts inside. 

Part of him wants to feel relieved, like he’d been missing this, but something deep in his head is screaming. Yuuri is so hard, his whole body is hard, Victor can feel the strength in every movement. It doesn’t feel real. 

But _fuck_ he wants it. He wants it. He goes to touch himself but Yuuri grabs his wrist, pins it to the scratchy dry leaves beneath them. The grip is strong enough that his bones grind together. 

“Yuuri,” he cries, and he can feel it in his toes, frenetic light in every nerve. He isn’t sure which part is arousal and which is terror. 

“Yes, Victor,” Yuuri whispers. “Cry for me, just like that. You’re so warm. So alive.”

The pace is brutal, inhuman, and the shock of cold pressing to his prostate is making him squirm. Yuuri lowers Victor’s legs, lets him wrap them around his waist, so that he can lean closer to kiss. It’s all teeth and pain and he can feel the wet gash against his chest but he doesn’t want it to stop.

 

 

 

_Stay close to me._

 

 

 

Yuuri is fucking him so hard that his body is bouncing off the ground, and they’re inching slowly closer to his neighbor’s headstone. He’s dripping all over his own belly and still wants to touch, but knows he’s not allowed. Yuuri is teasing him, his body is thrumming right on the edge, ready to spill over anyway, untouched.

It used to be his favorite thing, being denied. Yuuri pushed him so far sometimes he’d get mad during the moment, but it was always worth it. 

“Please, please,” he sobs. He touches Yuuri’s face and the scars are warm. “I have to come, please,” he begs. His cock is aching and red. Dripping onto his abs. Yuuri drills in, presses him into the ground so that the crunchy dead leaves scratch his back. An acorn digs into his spine. 

There’s a chuckle, and he’s not sure if it’s consent or not, but before he can try to decipher meaning there’s a loud, sudden burst of pain in his skull. Everything goes white for a moment and his ears ring. He can still feel Yuuri in him, thick, feel the way the fullness washes pleasure all over his body, but he’s drifting, unsure what’s happening. His hands reach behind his head to see what it was and it’s all hard and cold, like Yuuri’s body. Unyielding. It takes a moment for his brain to register that it’s the headstone behind him, that he’s hit his head. His scalp stings when he touches and his fingers come back red. 

“F-fuck,” he stutters, but Yuuri doesn’t stop. His head is throbbing but he’s too overwhelmed in sensation to make sense of everything. Yuuri laughs quietly. 

“You can come, Vitya,” Yuuri says. He holds Yuuri’s face and smears it with his blood, his nerves singing as the pressure uncoils. He thinks he might get sick. “Come for me like the sad little human you are.”

There’s a moment during it, a flash of memory that splits into others, where it feels right, feels like home. It’s the first time since Yuuri’s been dead that Victor has felt okay. Somewhere, deep, he knows he’ll drop soon, but it’s soft and warm knowing that Yuuri can catch him like he always does. He feels it splash hot against his own chest and can focus enough to see that Yuuri’s eyes glow red.

_This is wrong. This is wrong._

 

 

 

The weeks after Yuuri’s death are a blur. 

Chris stays with him for a while, makes sure he eats, sets a timer whenever he takes one of Yuuri’s leftover Xanax, doesn’t let him sleep all day. But he has a life he has to get back to. 

There’s a lot of _Are you sure?’_ s and _Please call me_ ’s and _I love you_ ’s when Chris finally leaves, and then it’s silent. Victor sits on the couch and doesn’t move for an hour. 

His head is full of tiny details, meaningless things. He doesn’t understand why he can’t think about something good, why he can’t think of something useful.

A day goes by where he can’t stop thinking about the suit Yakov wore to the funeral, and how the only time he ever saw him dressed that nice was at the wedding. His shoes were shiny. 

It’s normal to be this sad, he tells himself. It will get easier.

Yuuri had left his glasses on the counter, and Victor doesn’t touch them for a month. When he finally picks them up, they’re covered in a layer of dust.

 

 

 

“Vitya,” Yuuri says. His thrusts slow down but his grip tightens, and Victor is lost in the haze but knows he’s being dragged through the leaves. Yuuri pulls out and he’s receding back towards the green glow of his grave, hands like claws on Victor’s hips. Victor tries to lift his head but it’s still so heavy with pain. He looks at the sky, the clouds, quick sliver of moon that peeks through. His hand brushes against his clothes, his phone, the wine bottle, scattered on the ground around him. 

_Come to me_.

He’s falling, down into the hole, but Yuuri is holding him steady. His limbs thrash against it, and he wants to scream when he sees the casket there, still open, but no sound comes out. 

“Quiet now, Vitya,” Yuuri whispers. The cold fingers on his head wound feel good. He wants to sleep. He just wants Yuuri to hold him so they can go to sleep. He remembers how nice the casket was, all the money he spent on it. Blue satin on the inside, and photos of their friends tucked into the lining, a copy of their wedding vows. 

But when he sinks into it, it’s stiff, and rotting, and he looks to see that it’s weathered and full of decay, soiled from a leaking corpse. 

_No, no._

“Come with me,” Yuuri whispers. He lays Victor down and climbs in on top. “You’re okay, I’ve got you. I’m here.” 

_No, no. I’m alive. No._

He sees a flash of Chris’s smile, the photo pinned to the lid, the three of them the night Chris retired. There’s a yellowing water stain over Victor’s face.   _No, I’m alive._

He wants to scream, to fight, but his energy is gone. 

“Stay close to me.”

The ground is shaking again, all around them. He tries to reach up and gets one last glimpse at the autumn sky, but Yuuri takes his hand, holds it down. The dirt is starting to collapse around them. It gets in his eyes, his mouth. Yuuri kisses his brow and as the cold limbs curl around him he hears the coffin lid creaking shut. There’s the sound of dirt raining against the top. His whole body thrashes, elbows crashing into the walls, but Yuuri’s weight crushes down hard until he can’t fight anymore.

It’s all sensation in the dark. Yuuri’s body against him, cold and dead, the stitches and wet spot. But it’s soothing, familiar. He can feel his breath in the small space and the darkness feels both constricting and infinite, and the way Yuuri nuzzles into his neck gives him such intense goosebumps that his skin hurts. 

But he’s bleeding, he’s confused. Still drunk, he imagines. His breathing slows and he wants to sleep. 

“You’re here now, Vitya,” Yuuri whispers. “Don’t ever take your eyes off me.”

And Victor laughs at the joke, because it’s gone completely black. 

 

 

  

**Author's Note:**

> [say hi on Tumblr!](https://monstersinthecosmos.tumblr.com/post/179273254669/crashland-monstersinthecosmos-yuri-on-ice)


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